She’d done well, though she still appeared paler than usual.
“La, Lord Kincaid! Porterfield here will take you to the garden so that you may watch Paul smoke his silly cigars.”
A portly butler bowed in Jack’s direction.
“Meanwhile, I shall take good care of your lady.” She patted Fiona’s hand. “My dear, I hope you don’t mind, but my eldest sister knows your brothers well, and she tells me you are in a delicate condition.”
Fiona stumbled, and Miss Hatfield tightened her hold. “You must tell me all about it, for I’m sure I don’t know the first thing, and like I told my fiancé, I’m certain we’ll have a large family, and I just know I’ll be in the same interesting condition before you can say ‘Sneeze!’”
Jack grinned as Fiona was led away, prisoner to a chatterbox. It had certainly been a bit off-color of Miss Hatfield to mention Fiona’s “condition,” but Fiona had taken it well enough.
Jack halted. Was it possible that Fiona was in an “interesting condition”? He watched her climb the stairs, noting that her hand frequently rested on her stomach. Had she always done that?
She’d been ill several times on the carriage ride, and they’d had to stop and let her regain her composure once or twice. She’d also cringed at a steak and kidney pie at a posting inn, which had surprised him, as she usually had a healthy appetite.
Good God, she could very well be carrying his child. Jack rubbed his forehead, his mind swirling. Bloody hell. He was protecting not only his wife but his child as well.
He slipped a hand beneath his coat to the reassuring weight of his pistol tucked securely into his waistband, then turned on his heel. Hamish stood at attention at the carriage, his face grim with menace. Jack gave his two footmen a warning glance, and Dobson and Peter nodded. They would keep a careful watch over the equipment, taking turns through the night. They’d also report anything suspicious they might see. Tomorrow, after the wedding, Fiona’s two brothers would arrive, as would Devonsgate, who was following with the rest of their luggage. All were keeping their eyes peeled as they traveled the Great North Road.
Back in London, someone would have realized by now that the Kincaids were no longer in residence. Jack felt as if the cares of the world weighed on his shoulders.
The wedding was an elaborate affair. The bride wore a lovely blue gown and flowers in her hair. The groom wore a kilt and a formal coat bearing the family crest on the pocket. There were masses of flowers, numerous bridal attendants, and so many guests that the pews in the beautifully decorated chapel overflowed.
Fiona sat beside Jack. He’d seemed unusually somber since they’d arrived. Miss Hatfield—now Mrs. Cargreaves—spent the entire morning in a mist of tears. She grew dewy-eyed at the sight of her groom waiting for her at the altar, wept as she exchanged her vows, shed a tear at the end of mass, and fell in a sobbing mess upon the shoulder of her husband as they made their way to the receiving line.
Still, Fiona thought the ceremony lovely. The couple had been genuine in their professions of love, and the excitement with which they embarked on their new life was evident in their faces and the way they kept holding hands when they thought no one was looking.
Fiona watched them wistfully. She and Jack hadn’t had the luxury of such a blissful sendoff; their wedding hadn’t been what either of them had wished for. She slid a glance at Jack and found him staring out a window, his brows drawn. Was he thinking the same thing? The thought tightened her throat.
After going through the receiving line, they joined the other guests for dinner at the main house. The floor of the great hall was flagstone—well worn, uneven, and cold. It wasn’t long before Fiona’s back began to ache and her feet hurt.
She pressed a hand to the small of her back to relieve some of the pain and caught Jack’s eyes on her. His gaze roamed over her, lingering on her breasts, her hips.
A familiar tingle traveled up her spine. Last night, he’d surprised her by the gentleness with which he’d made love to her. He’d seemed fascinated by her body, running his hands over her, cupping her breasts, kissing her stomach, and touching her with a near-reverence that had awed and excited her.
Perhaps tonight she’d seduce him in return. She would slip into bed without her night rail, slide her legs down him, run her hands over his shoulders and chest, touching and tasting as she went—
She shivered, her nipples peaking at the thought. He was so handsome, this husband of hers, and so passionate.
Jack took her arm and bent close. “Fiona, come and let’s find a seat.”
“Did you wish to dance?”
He looked down at her and hesitated. “No,” he finally said. “Did you?”
She would have loved to, but her aching feet decreed otherwise. “I fear I’m still a bit sore.”
“Of course.” Jack led her away, finding a small group of empty chairs at a long table. “Here.” He pressed her into a chair. “I will return.”
He did, too. With his hands full—two cups of orgeat and two plates filled with slices of cake, hot tarts, and other delicacies.
He grinned. “I managed to get the last of the apple tarts. The fat man in the blue broadcoat will never speak to me again, but it will be worth it.”
Fiona gurgled a laugh. “Your name will be spoken in harsh tones for weeks to come.”
“I have no doubt.” He handed her a plate with a slice of cake, and they ate and watched as several young couples came together to dance. The bride and groom held hands, looking sweetly shy as she chattered breathlessly and he looked upon her in silent adoration.
A faint ache tightened Fiona’s heart. She didn’t really long for the missed bridal veil and flowers but for the excitement of beginning life as a couple. They’d missed that and would never have it.
Jack followed Fiona’s wistful gaze to where the bride and groom were leading a set in dancing. Was that saddening her? She’d never had a real wedding.
Though he’d disliked the thought of being married at first and had clung to his freedom for as long as possible, now he couldn’t imagine life without her. He couldn’t remember sleeping alone, eating breakfast alone, or wandering through life instead of living it, which is what he had done before Fiona. With her, he lived. Without her…
He refused to consider that. He’d always lived in the present; perhaps that was what he needed to do now. He couldn’t give Fiona a wedding like this—what was done was done. But he could do something to bring a smile to her face.
A few moments later, he sat back in his chair and grinned. He knew what he’d do. All he needed was a little help from Devonsgate.
The morning sun splintered through the crack in the curtains. Fiona opened her eyes, searching the unfamiliar room.
Jack was gone.
She sat up and scooted out of bed. Where was he? She started to tug the bellpull to call the maid but then decided that with the number of guests in the house, it would be quicker if she dressed herself. She washed using the pitcher of fresh water by the bed, then hurriedly dressed.
Jack’s riding boots were gone. Maybe he’d just gone for a ride or—
The door opened, and Jack walked in, her cloak folded over his arm. He smiled upon seeing her, and until then, she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.
“I am glad you are up.”
She looked at her cloak. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Yes, we are. Devonsgate arrived earlier and he is with the carriage.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” He looked at her shoes. “You’ll need half boots; the ground may be uneven.” He went to the wardrobe for a pair of boots.
She sat down to remove her slippers, but he shook his head. “Change them in the carriage. I want to leave before anyone else awakens.”
Fiona stood. “Very well, though I have to warn you, I’m starving.”
“Excellent. I want you and your appetite for this little jaunt.” He placed her cloak around
her shoulders and fastened the hook beneath her chin.
The gesture was sweet, simple, and completely unexpected. There was something tender about Jack this morning. Was he realizing that perhaps the time would come soon when they would part? Once she was with child…
Beneath the voluminous cloak, she rested her hand on her stomach. It was possible she was already with child. She frowned, trying to remember the date of her last courses.
“Ready, my love?” He held the door open.
She went through it, wondering at the gleam in his eyes. He appeared excited, almost playful.
At the carriage, Devonsgate greeted them with a bow and a smile. “Ah, madam! How are you this fine morning?”
“I’m cold!” She rubbed her arms beneath the cloak. “I hope you will not freeze on the carriage.”
“I have a toasty topcoat. I find this weather rather invigorating, after the heat of town.”
Hamish snorted. “The air is fresher, too.”
Fiona agreed; the gentle morning wind carried the scents of fresh hay and roses.
One of the footmen opened the carriage door, and they were soon on their way. It was a lovely ride, over the hills and through a thick forest. Along the way, Jack made her laugh with tales of his brothers and parents.
The carriage pulled up to a wide, grassy spot near a small stream. Fiona alighted, one of the footmen assisting her. “Where are we?”
“Strathmore Forest. I used to come here when I was a child. There is a small clearing down that path. I thought we might set up the food there.”
As Devonsgate disappeared down the path with a heavy basket, Fiona drew a deep breath. The scents of damp grass and clean water soothed her. The grass was a deep, rich green that begged for bare feet. A babbling brook rushed past them, the water tumbling clear and clean over mossy rocks. Large trees overhung them, the vivid blue sky dappling through.
Hamish dismounted and tied his horse to the back of the carriage, then pulled his pistol from his belt and stood at a tree not far away, scanning the woods.
Fiona frowned, realizing that not only was Hamish armed, but the footmen were as well. “Jack, do you really think that is necessary?”
“I doubt whoever caused your accident has yet realized we’ve left, but I feel safer being prepared.” He clasped her elbow as he directed her to a little path. “I used to hide here when I was a boy.”
“From whom?”
“From my chores, actually.”
She laughed.
He grinned back, his gaze sliding down to where her hand rested on her stomach.
Fiona quickly removed her hand and flushed; she hadn’t realized she’d been standing so.
A deep look of possessiveness flashed over his face, but he merely gestured to the path. “After you, my lady.”
She walked down the winding path, her half boots rustling through the grass, her toes cooling as the leather chilled on contact with the damp ground. She was supremely conscious of the freshness of the air, of the breeze that tugged at her hair and brushed her cheeks, of the warmth of Jack’s hand cupping her elbow as he led her around various dips in the path.
“I hope you brought plenty to eat,” Fiona said. “My stomach is demanding attention.”
They rounded a corner, and she halted. A large blanket was set with grapes and cheeses, tarts and crumpets and sweet breads, accompanied by jellies, jams, and marmalade. Devonsgate stood to one side, a napkin hung over one arm.
“Devonsgate! This is lovely!”
“Thank his lordship. It was his idea.”
Fiona turned. “Jack, thank you.”
The faintest hint of a smile curved his mouth. “It’s nothing. Now, come and eat. You’ve gotten a bit pale these last few days.”
He settled on the blanket next to her. “We’ve had a wild time of it, haven’t we? First our marriage, which was not the usual fare. Then we had to adjust to each other. Your brothers did not make things easier, either. Plus the problems with Lucinda and the runaway horse…And now, here we are, attending a wedding.” He picked up a knife and began peeling a pear. “I don’t like weddings.”
“Really? Why not?”
He cut the pear into slices and placed them on a plate. “Devonsgate, please give her ladyship some juice.”
Devonsgate poured some juice into a wineglass and handed it to Fiona. “And you, my lord? I daresay you’ll wish for some ale or—”
“No. I will have juice, too.”
Devonsgate and Fiona looked at each other in amazement, then Fiona looked at Jack. “Juice?”
He shrugged. “What’s good enough for my son is good enough for me.”
Son? He thought she was—She blinked. She kept wondering, yet her mind skittered around the thought as if it were too hot to touch.
Silently, she began to add up the weeks. It was possible. Yes, it was possible. Her eyes watered. Was she carrying Jack’s child?
“Fiona, drink your juice,” Jack said gently.
She took a convulsive gulp, the liquid tart on her tongue.
“Devonsgate,” Jack said, his gaze never leaving Fiona, “I believe we have all we need. You may retire to the coach.”
“Thank you, my lord. If you need me I am but a step away.” He bowed deeply, gave the blanket one last critical look, then disappeared up the walk.
Jack sipped his juice, grimaced, but quickly hid it. He set down his glass, picked up a small plate, and placed an apricot tart on it, along with a wedge of cheese. “Try these.”
She picked up the tart and nibbled on the edge. She’d donned a white muslin morning gown trimmed with pink rosettes that peeked from between the gap in her cloak. In her hurry to dress, she’d used far too few pins, and her hair was in imminent danger of falling down.
She looked fresh and young, the smattering of freckles dusting her nose so appealing that he was tempted to trace their progress with a kiss.
Fiona bit into a tart. “Jack, why do you dislike weddings?”
“I find all the trappings and the flowers and such ridiculous.”
“I suppose,” she said slowly. “But still…” She blushed. “You may think me silly, but the ceremony itself was beautiful. They really love each other. Jack, sometimes…sometimes, don’t you wish things were different between us? That our wedding had been more normal?” She flushed deeply. “Of course, we wouldn’t be together then. But if we had…do you miss that?” She sighed. “I am making things difficult, aren’t I? I am sorry.”
“No, please go on. What did you like about the wedding?”
She looked surprised but pleased. “The whole thing was lovely—the ceremony, the reception. We didn’t have that.”
He grinned. “No, our wedding was quite different. The groom was drunk and unconscious.”
She put down the tart, her cheeks hot and pink. “I wish you wouldn’t remember that.”
Jack laughed. “I will do my best to forget, though it will be difficult.”
She sighed, and silence filled the space between them. Jack’s flippant remark died on his lips. She was serious. This meant a lot to her.
“What do you wish our wedding had been like?”
She gave him a quick smile. “It is silly even to wonder. We had no choice in our marriage, especially you.”
“I am not sorry we married.” The words surprised him, but he knew instantly they were true. Now there was a purpose to his life, a reason for everything.
Her gaze flew to his face. “No?”
“Not at all. Considering everything, I think we’ve done well.”
She pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “I think we’ve done well, too.”
He took her hand, noting how small it was in his. “Fiona, I—”
A shot rang out.
Jack was on his feet, his pistol in his hand before the echo died.
But the thick woods revealed nothing—no movement, no sound. Nothing but an eerie, unnatural silence.
“Damn them!” His che
st pounded with shock. “Someone must be hunting.”
Fiona didn’t answer.
He turned. A stunned expression on her face, she opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out.
He knelt. “Do not be frightened. When I find—”
Blood, rich and red, soaked her pristine white gown.
“No!” he gasped.
Her lips quivered. “I—” Her eyes fluttered, and then, slowly, she fell forward into his arms.
Jack caught her, dropping his pistol to the blanket. “Devonsgate! Hamish!” Jack’s mind thundered with fear. He had to do something to save her! The blood was spreading so fast.
“Damn it, Devonsgate!” he yelled frantically. “Fiona! Please, God, no!” Tears blurred his eyes as he scooped her into his arms.
A whisper of sound brushed across his ears, then—
CRACK!
Something exploded across his head. He fell, pushing himself to one side, cushioning Fiona against him.
He fought with all his will to stay conscious, to reach for her again, but thick, black, cold silence swallowed him whole.
Gregor peered through the thicket.
“Can you see anything?” Dougal asked.
“Aye. I can see both of them. It looks as if they’re having a picnic.” He glared at Dougal. “So much for your thought that Kincaid was bringing her here to murder her.”
“I didn’t suggest any such thing.”
Gregor lifted a brow.
Dougal flushed. “I don’t trust him, that’s all.”
“Sometimes I think he truly cares for her. Right now, he’s looking at her as if she’s the only woman in the world. I wonder if he knows he does that.”
Dougal scowled. “He needs a good thumping to wake him up. She’s the best woman on the earth, and he’s a fool not to realize it.”
“Aye.”
“And we should be over there, protecting her. I don’t trust him, and neither did you until recently.”
“Has it ever dawned on you that he’s had many a chance to harm her if he wished? A push down the stairs, a bit of poison in her daily tea. It wouldn’t be so difficult,” Gregor pointed out.